Murder by Design Trilogy Read online

  “That’s a shame, but how did you happen to—

  “The wedding’s scheduled at St. Paul’s, Port Gamble, and Mom … well one thing led to another. I spent the last forty-eight hours sewing. The bride invited me to the wedding and then Paul called—

  “The minister. So you’re going to the reception with Paul.”

  “Well, I guess you could call it going with him.” Gilly saw the disappointment on Hawk’s face and made a counteroffer. “Can we get together sometime next week?”

  “I have school all week.”

  “I’ll be going into Seattle myself on Monday. Signing up for my first classes at the Design Academy. Their fashion design program.”

  “Hey, that’s perfect. Let’s meet in Seattle for dinner. Here’s my card,” Hawk pulled out his business card circling his cell number. “You must have a cell—busy girl like you and now going to school.” He smiled at her. He couldn’t believe his good luck—meeting her in Seattle, on the other side of the sound, no prying eyes.

  Gilly retrieved her card from her pants pocket, waved it in front of Hawk’s face pleased to show him she too had a business card—Gillianne Wilder, Fashion Designer.

  “Excuse me. Ms. Wilder, nice to see you again, and you are Mr. Hawk Jackson. I’m a reporter with the Seattle Times, and Deputy Kracker told me you called him. You gave John Doe, the murdered man, a ride the night before he washed up on the beach?” Skip paused, taking a deep breath.

  “Sorry, mister, but you have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know my name but I don’t know yours.” Hawk was annoyed that this pushy reporter had interrupted his conversation with Gilly.

  Gilly stared wide-eyed at Skip, surprised to see him. He sure is persistent I’ll say that for him, she thought.

  “Sorry, Mr. Jackson. I was so glad you were here that I forgot my manners. My name is Skip Hunter.” The men shook hands—Hawk a bit reluctantly.

  “So did you?” Skip asked his pen poised over his notepad.

  “Did I what?”

  “Take John Doe from the Kingston ferry to Hansville? The General Store?”

  “Yes. It was nasty out and we were going in the same direction, well sort of. He was a foot passenger.” Hawk turned his attention back to Gilly hoping Hunter would get the hint and leave. But Gilly, now turned her surprise from Skip to Hawk. This was the first she’d heard that he had given a ride to the John fellow.

  “Hawk, did he mention the Stanleys to you?” Gilly asked.

  Hawk glared at Skip. Skip stood waiting for an answer to her question. Hawk sighed. Now Gilly was asking questions about the man. “No, he didn’t. In fact he didn’t say much of anything. Now, what time—

  “And you let him off at the store around?” Skip scribbled a few words and then inched back in front of Hawk.

  “Around 10:00. I don’t know. What is this, an inquisition?”

  “Not at all, sorry. Just want to get the timing right.”

  “I arrived at Gramps a little after 11:00 from my shift here at the casino,” Gilly offered with a smile. The man was there. Probably hadn’t been in the house long. Gramps was just pouring the tea … he always has a kettle going,”

  Skip looked from Gilly back to Hawk. “How did you happen to offer Mr. Doe a ride?”

  “Geez. I happened to sit next to him on the ferry, outside, the stern, the bench under cover if you must know. We exchanged a couple of words about the weather. He said he was going to Hansville and I told him it was a little out of my way but would he like a ride. And now, Mr. Reporter, that is all I know. If you don’t mind I’d like to finish my conversation with Ms. Wilder.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. Sorry, and thanks. I’ll be running along—next ferry back to Seattle is due any minute. You’ve been helpful. So long, wait, here’s my card if you think of anything else. Ms. Wilder here’s another one for you. Nice to see you again,” Skip said with a warm smile. “Bye … bye to you both.” Skip shoved his notepad into the side pocket of his cargo pants, pushed on the Velcro to secure the pocket, and nodded his head to Gilly and Hawk. He retraced his steps through the gamblers to the front entrance disappearing in the elevator to the parking garage.

  “Are all reporters so annoying?” Hawk remarked glad to be rid of the pest.

  “Come on. He was doing his job. A little over the top I agree, but he’s gone now.”

  “Ya. Okay. Where were we? Oh yes, you can’t have dinner with me tomorrow night but we’re going to meet on Monday after you go to that school—

  “Design Academy.”

  “Right. And I have your cell number.” Hawk retrieved her card from his pocket but pulled out Skips instead. He sighed and tried again. He had to be sure he had Gilly’s number.

  “I have to get back to work or you’ll be firing me,” Gilly said grinning. “See you later. If not, I’ll see you Monday.” Gilly rushed off to a group gathered at a bank of slot machines signaling they were ready to order a round of drinks.

  Hawk stood, smiling after her as she noted the customer’s order. He appeared to be captivated with the red-haired waitress with sparkling green eyes smiling up at him.

  “Son, come to my office, please!” Hawk blanched. He’d been caught with his eyes following Gilly to the bar to place the drink order. His father didn’t invite him to his office. It was more like a summons. He followed in his father’s wake, up a wide staircase and then into the manager’s office banked with one-way glass overlooking the gambling tables.

  “Sit, sit.” Mr. Jackson motioned to Hawk as he eased into his big, black-leather desk chair. He leaned back, hands in front of his face, fingers together forming a steeple. “I had hoped you would take my suggestion about the Wilder girl.”

  “I have, Dad. We just said a few words … you don’t want me to be rude do you?”

  “You know what I’m saying, Hawk. If I see you ogling her again, I’ll have no choice but to let her go. So, if you don’t want her to lose her job, I suggest you steer clear of her. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, but I think you’re overreacting to a simple conversation.”

  “Conversations have a way of becoming, shall we say, a relationship. You have duties, Hawk. You’ve been given a great opportunity to represent the tribe in upcoming negotiations with the state gaming commission, and our Las Vegas friends, to expand our operation. I’m counting on you, son. Don’t let me down. Don’t let the tribe down. You cannot become involved with a woman outside of the tribe.”

  Chapter 7

  ───

  THE FERRY CUT THROUGH the inky water heading back to Pier 52, Seattle. Bright overhead lights beamed down on sleepy vacationers spread out over the padded benches—mothers snuggled with little ones, dads sprawled out, their sneakers or flip-flops hanging over the edge. Skip huddled alone in a booth, his blazer discarded beside him.

  With his laptop resting on his knees, his fingers were flying, the article flowing onto the screen under John Doe’s picture. Skip’s byline appeared beneath the headline: Who is this man?

  Hitting the enter-key two times and referring to his notepad, he laid out the timeline starting with Hawk Jackson driving Mr. Doe to Hansville and dropping him off on a rainy night in front of the General Store. He makes his way, must have walked, to the Wilder home where he enjoys a cup of tea. Then Mr. Doe tells Mr. Clay Wilder that he had parked a car up the road. No abandoned car has been found.

  Mr. Wilder’s granddaughter joins the men. Mr. Doe asked Mr. Wilder if he knows where the Stanleys live. Says he’s lost. Strange, however, since he would have passed the Stanleys on his way to the Wilders. This reporter talked to the Stanleys. They had retired for the night at the time Mr. Doe was creeping around the neighborhood. Mr. Doe leaves the Wilder home and seven hours later is found dead at the edge of the tide line approximately one mile south of the Hansville General Store.

  Kitsap police say Mr. Doe had a deep gash on his head. There are cliffs along sections of beach in Hansville where the body was found. Did he fall?
Drowned on the incoming tide? Unlikely.

  A little girl, clutching a teddy bear sidled up to Skip fascinated with the clicking of the keys. “Your fingers are fast,” she said looking up at him with large brown eyes.

  “Katie, come back here. Don’t bother the man, honey.”

  Katie reluctantly turned, trotted back to her mother, and climbed up on her lap. Nestled into the safety of her mother’s arms, the teddy clenched in her fist and thumb in her mouth, her eyes remained riveted on Skip’s rapidly moving fingers.

  Skip smiled at her then looked back at his computer. Reading over the words he had just typed, he copied and pasted the text under his byline—rearranged and tightened sentences. Satisfied, he added the closing paragraph: “I ask you again. Who is this man and who murdered him?”

  Skip saved and closed the document. Leaned back. Closed his eyes. Had he gone too far? He felt in his bones that Mr. Doe was murdered. Skip remembered sitting at the foot of his father who read crime stories to his impressionable son. The police scanner, always on, sat prominently on a sideboard near the fireplace. Father and son would speculate on what the police found, what the scene looked like, what clues the officers would look for. Then his father would scour the newspaper the next day for a written report.

  Opening his eyes, a slow smile crossed Skip’s face—good memories.

  Leaning forward, he logged into his email account and sent the article off for the early morning edition. He knew there would be pushback, saying that he was living in a fantasy world, that there was no evidence that a crime had been committed, let alone murder. Of course, he was only a cub reporter, so they would change his slant. But … but, he had a chance the article would run. It all depended on whether the editor needed to fill space—a light news day he was in luck; if there was an overload of stories, then his story would be stripped to a few words. He added a postscript to his email: “I’ll be in the newsroom as soon as I can after the ferry docks. Twenty minutes tops.”

  Hearing the vessel’s horn signaling that it was approaching the pier, Skip shut down his laptop and raced down to his car in the belly of the ferry. Inserting the key in the ignition, he started the engine before the ferry bumped the dock. He followed the line of cars out to the street and then swerved around the line and up a side street. Several shortcuts later, he pulled into the parking garage and ran into the newsroom to check on his piece.

  Yes, his boss, Sylvester Cromwell, editor of the crime section, had received it. Yes, it was running, and yes, the whole piece was included in the first section, page three, lower right-hand corner. The first page story, above the fold, continued to grab attention. There were no leads in the gold heist. Police remained baffled.

  Skip slowly drove to his mom and dad’s house. It was almost midnight and he didn’t have the energy to drive to his apartment, besides he wanted to pet his faithful friend, Agatha. Letting himself into the house, he found Agatha sitting on the other side of the door waiting patiently for her master. Whining softly as Skip knelt beside her, he gave her white and tan back, sides, soft floppy ears, and finally her all white tummy a good rub. Then he tip-toed to the kitchen, Agatha following on his heels. He fished an oatmeal-raisin cookie out of the cookie jar, poured a glass of milk for himself, and added a splash in Agatha’s bowl.

  “Glad, your home, Skipper. I’ll see you in the morning.” His mother whispered from the doorway and then retreated back to bed.

  “Night, Mom.”

  Finishing off his snack, Skip turned off the lights, shuffled to his boyhood bedroom, and flopped on the bed. He was asleep before his head the pillow, Agatha curled against his back.

  Chapter 8

  ───

  A PERFECT SUMMER DAY enveloped Port Gamble. The old frame church stood on the hill, doors open wide in welcome—a perfect backdrop for a wedding—scalloped woodwork, white molding around doors, windows. A spire pierced the blue sky.

  Gilly, her pale-green sleeveless chiffon dress fluttering around her knees, followed the path curving up the hill to the church’s entrance. A white staircase at the pinnacle of the curve, white railing on either side to help the parishioners maintain their balance to the double doors, was flanked with two large pots of purple flowers nestled in Vinca vines trailing white flowers to the grass.

  Entering the church with several other guests, Gilly took in a deep breath. She loved this church with its tall arched windows, Wedgewood blue walls from the top of the white wainscoting to the white beveled ceiling. Trudy’s florist had adorned the pews with sprigs of apricot and yellow flowers secured by large white satin bows, the streamers cascading almost to the floor. The warm, rich patina of the fifteen or so wooden pews glowed with an air of sturdy permanence.

  Gilly took her seat next to her mother, father, and Gramps, holding hands as they bowed their heads in prayer thanking God for the beautiful day and their family. The tiny organ at the back filled the little church with soft music, then slipped into the traditional wedding march—Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.

  The bridesmaids smiled as they passed Gilly on their trek down the center aisle. Jean had snuck a tiny black bow in the center of her bouquet. No one seemed to notice except Gilly who gave a slight nod of recognition to Jean’s show of dissent to the ceremony that was about to take place.

  Trudy was gorgeous. But then what bride isn’t, Gilly thought as she returned Trudy’s smile. There were about fifty guests—all friends of the groom’s family. Only Trudy’s mom and dad and her bridesmaids were in attendance to wish the bride well. The Wilder’s occupied one pew on the bride’s side. Paul officiated and Gilly felt a catch in her throat listening to his strong yet mellow voice flowing over the small gathering. As Paul pronounced the couple husband and wife, a thirteen-year-old boy at the base of the bell tower pulled the rope with great enthusiasm ringing the bell to announce to the community that another couple had been joined in holy matrimony.

  And, just like that, it was over. All the fuss, worry, tears, and a few laughs, came to an end. The reception, a buffet lunch, was held in the church hall, catered by the Port Gamble Tea Room. Anne hustled back and forth from the kitchen to the buffet table replenishing serving plates, bowls, coffee urn, and iced-tea pitchers. Will was very subdued as he helped his wife. Gramps sat at a table with Trudy’s dad. Gilly saw they were in deep conversation over something.

  After Trudy’s father gave a champagne toast to his daughter and new son-in-law, he immediately turned back to Gramps. Gilly felt a little sorry for Trudy’s mom so she slid into the empty chair next to Mrs. Stanhope. The woman was pleasant enough, but Gilly could tell she was not happy with her daughter’s choice of a mate.

  Paul joined the table and Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope thanked him for his courtesy as they passed him an envelope containing a contribution to the church. The organist hustled up, a buxom woman in her sixties, gray hair secured in a loose bun, and wished the Stanhopes a safe trip back home to Chicago. She also informed them that Trudy and Quentin would be leaving at any moment. The organist thanked Mr. Stanhope as he pressed an envelope into her hand. Gilly had received a similar envelope given to her mother when the girl’s picked up their dresses at the Tea Room the previous afternoon.

  The guests eagerly stepped outside to the front of the antique church ready to throw rice at the couple as they ran to their car escaping to Port Townsend for their first honeymoon night.

  Gilly rolled her eyes when she spotted several large cans, painted black with white unhappy faces, attached to the car’s bumper. Jean’s personal send-off to her friend.

  Gilly returned to the hall to help her mom but Anne insisted that she was about finished and said that Paul was waiting for her up in the rectory.

  ───

  PAUL WAS LOCKING THE church’s front doors when Gilly mounted the last step from the basement hall. He had changed into a dark suit and tie.

  “So what do you think of the new Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope?” he asked a twinkle in his eye.

  “I thin
k they may have a rough time with both sets of parents, but you never know. Nice job on the service by the way.”

  “I understand you saved the day with the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

  “I had a hand in it, you might say,” Gilly said leaning back against one of the doors looking directly into Paul’s eyes. They were both the same height, but somehow Paul seemed shorter today.

  “Are you up for dinner in Poulsbo?” he asked. “I know a nice little place—fish and Italian specialties. I’m sure you’re tired after all that sewing but—

  “Sure. Poulsbo’s only twenty minutes. To tell you the truth I’m looking forward to kicking back with a nice glass of wine. Maybe they’ll card me,” she said giggling.

  “What, six months since you turned twenty-four?”

  “Don’t give me a hard time, Reverend. You’re only five years more.”

  ───

  PAUL HANDED GILLY THE restaurant’s number, and she called to make a table reservation as Paul drove out of the church’s parking lot. She was tired and thirsty and didn’t want to take a chance on a Saturday-night line. Paul reached over for her hand as they sped through the lush forest of towering pines. Gilly accepted the overture. This was the first time they had been together on what she considered a real date.

  The restaurant was packed, but the soft candlelight and low buzz of relaxed diners were welcoming. The waiter served Paul’s request for a small carafe of white wine, took their dinner order, and left, stopping at the next table to ask if the diners wanted another round of drinks.

  “Here’s to the girl who saved the wedding party,” Paul said tapping the rim of his glass to hers.

  Sipping her wine Gilly stole a glance at Paul—a sweet, solid man. Steady job she supposed. The church probably wouldn’t shut its doors as the lumber mill had done throwing Gramps and her dad out of work, although she didn’t know how the church operated when it came to moving their clergy around from one location to another. But, Paul had only started his ministry, his first ministry, eight months ago, so he’d probably be here awhile. After all, his predecessor had served the Port Gamble faithful for twenty years.